Of Tails and Teeth - A Story of Revolution
by DemorielsLesestube
Summary: Far, far away in the East, there lies a land, once a very prosperous place, now divided by war. With the old regime gone, only one rule remains: "Eat or get eaten!" Four animals however, a pig, a rooster, a cat and a wolf, are about to act against this rule, and even their own natures in order to survive the very Hell on Earth. THIS is their story...
1. Chapter 1 - PELMENI

The old Mill at the pond used to be the most profit-yielding property of the food industry, with its fertile fields and their almost entirely loyal farmers. But when the mob started their revolution, everything changed. The once so productive place has become a battlefield, fiercely contested by two giant political parties: Both the ruthless national police and the hot-tempered commoners are keen on possessing the corn filled yards, that surround the building. Neither one of them has yet succeeded to obtain dominance over these hills. Stuck in their positions they circle the area like vultures, ready to strike at any moment the enemy shows a sign of weakness. So the weeks went by, while the soil got dry as dust. And the mill's wheel, once an iconic device to canalize the powers of the winds, never has moved an inch since this whole dispute began.

In times like these one particular species of animal has to suffer more torments than all others combined: The swines, the mill's caretakers as well as the most demanded resource of meat. Because in this world, it is eat or get eaten, and pig flesh is many's daily delicacy. Pigs are at the bottom of society, with no rights and no hopes for better lives. Nobody questioned their inferiority, not even the free folk, the so-called liberators. It is not surprising, that they were left to die in these ruins. Cattle can be reproduced, why sparing them? But despite the expectations of the militants and their revolutionist counterparts, some of these inferior creatures survived the harsh conditions of the wasted lands. Actually a whole bunch of them barricaded themselves behind the last wooden boards and stone walls of the farm. But they are slowly dying..

Unfortunately for the pigs, hunger and death are not stopped by any walls and with the ongoing conflict food and water run lower and lower. One little piglet, her name is Snezhy, holds on her apple, but little does she know that the fruit is already infested by mold. In her eyes there is still something like faith for salvation left. But with the days this little glimmer of hope fades more and more. With those very eyes she looks to her parents, an old couple, that have endured many pains in the last years. Her mother has been a breeding sow, serving the country with her off-springs. Of all her hundred children only her daughter slipped through the butchers cleaver, for she has the same genes, perfectly designed to produce hundreds of more little bacon sacks. Born to be slaughtered, that is the swine's fate. Snezhy drops her gaze, back to her disgusting apple, and her arm, that is holding the spoiled fruit. A pink, little hoof, with veins all over it. At this second she thinks of all the mouths, that would love to cost this hoof. But why would they? She sniffs at it, oinking like she actually likes the odor she can smell. Even in this bony stage, it has the scent of a healthy pig, a common sensation, she associates with home, family. But now, in the stinky shadows of the destroyed mill there is something else to it, she has never sensed before. A certain perfume, promising an end to the hunger, promising a nice bite of raw pork. So she throws her apple away, puts her tiny hoof in her open, watery snout and prepares herself to taste her own flesh as so many other animals would love to. One little bite, that's all it takes...

She hesitates, when a dark figure approaches the scenery. A black, muscular hog. With judgment in his stare he springs her arm from her muzzle, while she just peers in a lost and confused manner. "We are no food", says the mysterious newcomer. He picks up the apple, cleans it with his sturdy hand and gives it back to her. "Never forget that." The hog is called Kom, and he used to be the chief steward of the mill. The Revolution however opened his eyes, for being eaten has lost its charm for him. Previously swines like him were controlled by their own vulgar superstitions and the manipulative ways of their dictators. Nowadays his beliefs lie beyond his reprieve in this cage, refusing to continue the circle of death. When the bloodshed arrived at the fences of the mill, Kom took the opportunity and saved as many pigs as he could. Now they hide here, unarmed and weakened, but alive. The first step in the true direction is survival, and then the change of hearts may come naturally. For his brothers and sisters have to learn that they are no longer just soon-to-be- roasted meat, but animals, with the right to breath under the same sun as their tormentors.

Kom takes a closer look through the boards, all he can see are tents and banners on the horizon. The clash has stopped for now, for both sides agreed to declare armistice till their replenishment will arrive. There they lurk, on their mountains of grain, refreshing on the won loot. What a waste! The pigs should have a piece of that delicious cake, at last they are the ones making it. And instantly a little idea has been born in the hog's brain. He turns and begins to shout, as loud as he can, so every pig can listen to what important stuff he might be anxious to say: "Comrades", he starts, and his voice fills the air with whimsical magic. "Friends, who bravely survived the catastrophe, that has come over the whole old Mill. The ban, that kept us under check for such a long time has been broken. Finally we are free pigs, no longer under control of those who nourish from our labor and the fruits that grow both from our lands and on our bones. Now is the time for a pay back. These beasts have taken everything from us, our runts, our homes and our pride. Now we are going to reclaim what is ours. Let us raid their inventory tonight!" Frosty silence. The pigs looked at each other, with fear in their blank eyes. The sheer thought of mugging a well armed camp is ridiculous, chiefly for grunters. It is absolutely unrealistic that they would stand a single chance. But Kom is not so easily convinced, he truly believes in the might of his crowd. "My fellow pigs," he adds. "I am well aware, how stupid that may sound to you. But think again! They do and will not suspect pigs to revolt, we will definitely have the moment of surprise on our side." Again, silence. Except this time one old pig looks more annoyed than concerned. Mahop. He is an eldest breeder of the first generation, that has polluted many sows back in his days. He has outlived many of his family members and has witnessed the unbelievable horror, that had been done to them. After Kom he is by far the most respected integrity of the Mill. "We are very thankful, for what you have done for us, Comrade Kom. You made us live longer that we might have without you.", he says. "But don't give this good folk deceitful hopes. They are no warriors, they are farmers, people of peace. What can pitchforks accomplish against guns? Nothing. How can thin pig skin defend against poisonous fangs? It can't. It is not in our nature to raise, Kom. We should accept our fate and die in dignity."

Rage pumps through Kom's body like red blood. He pulls a revolver out of his trousers, its handle has been perfectly covered by his purple safran. Right before trouble broke lose, when the Longcoats declared war to the religious authorities, it was announced that every animal has the right to defend themselves against traitors. The result was that even pigs have weapons, but only those of bad quality, which are rusty and plump. Kom's gun has all the imperfections, that a gun can possibly have. But it serves it purpose. It causes a stir. "Comrade Mahop.", speaks Kom to the old pig, that faces the pistol with a healthy mixed expression of fear and composure. "If dying in pig dignity is your wish, than I shall grant it it you." He chucks the gun and Mahop catches it, for it just fell right on his crouch. "Go ahead, kill yourself." Old Mahop examines the gun in disbelief. Suicide. No pig has ever considered suicide before. Why should they? The scaffold waits for all pigs, so their lives are short anyway, even without taking the blindfolded action of self-harm. No, not in his case: Mahop has had a good life, learning a lot about himself, but also about art, poetry and companionship. And killing himself would mean that all these collected memories, these skills, are for nothing. They would turn to ash, and stew. What a horrific image! The great breeder Mahop, turned to jerky. With this realization in mind, he returns the weapon. Tears drop from his eyes, and he suspects that nobody cares. But, like always, he is mistaken. Kom, after pouching the pistol back in his trousers, comes up to him to hug him. It is a loving, compassionate gesture, for Kom has lived a similar life before the Revolution, and he knows about the cogitations and doubts, that can occur a pig at this point. "I am glad you refused to face the gallows. You are the living example of a creature, that has not given up yet. And to live means to eat. Out there we can find the food we need. We just have to grab it. That is what they call justice. And I am more than hungry for justice!" A murmur goes through the crowd, for Mahop, and all the quiet listeners of the old Mill at the pond, with its lifeless wheel and its fallow land, have a bellyful of the old principles. It is time for the swines to feast.


	2. Chapter 2 - POZHARSKIJE

"Hey there, keep in line!", a very indignant rabbit yells to the little creature, which has never learned from the scratch, that it is oddly impolite to step out the formidable queue, formed in front of the fare booth. The little tearaway bows down before the hare and aligns, for the thought of offending somebody never crossed his mind. He looks rather elegant, with his monocle in silver cell, the colorful feathery of his tail, his short, but pointy beak and his tiny brownish hat, that caches his red comb pretty well and rounds out the picture of a storybook rooster perfectly. But the appearance is misleading. Although the layout is adequate to a wealthy aristocrat, the bird does suffer from a very basic need, that has befallen nearly all animals of the country: For the sake of brevity, he does have an awful case of being hungry. And to correct this problematic state of things he decided in favor of fetching an appertained appetizer in downtown, where the Red-Coats have their camps, conveniently close by the poorest of classes. Finally, the rooster seems to come next in line, which he secretly overindulges in inner preliminary celebration. The steward of the booth, a boar, swiftly makes a package of groceries for his feathery friend, who greedily grasps for it. "Fork some money, then you get the stuff!", the boar demands in a brutal accent. The rooster has a look at his wardrobe, scours the whole cloth for coins, but has to confess the steward that he is as penniless as one can get. "Tough!", the boar says unto the rooster. "Now get lost, I have a few hungry mouths to feed!" Crestfallen the bird thinks about leaving immediately at first, then he hastens straigt back, fairly increasing the fury of the waiting clientele. "I do have a bijou, surely worth a thousand packages tho. If we could arrange some kind of trade, that would be incredibly charming..." The boar leans over to the bird, who shrinks down to a perceived half of his original size. "Cash is king! Sell it, for the sake of our Tsarina, but never attend to show up here again without any!", the pig growls and thrusts the bird roughly beside."Next!"

The rooster, a tad disenchanted by the rudeness of the boar, heads off to the nearby alleys, with an open eye for any hockshop. Naturally there have to be tons of them in this latitude, for it is known far and wide, that downtown has serious revenue problems. However, the rumor does seem to be a little bit excessive, for the rooster's taste, as he can not find any pawnshops, whether it is in the Herding Road or Shelter's keep. He catches himself googling desperately at the signposts, which results in a quite dowdy incident of hard clashing into a stranger. Both collaboratively bob up unharmed, thank goodness! The rooster even manages to be so charming to pick up the hat for the stranger, who turns out to be a very beautiful cat lady. "I am so sorry, Madame.", the rooster expresses his sorrow. "Discombobulated, silly me!" The cat lady replies, with the smoothest of all voices: "Oh no, I am more than partly involved in this mishap as well. Nothing happened, so please no harsh feelings, kind sir..." The rooster con-gees in view of this pretty female, and she returns the favor by making a sweet little curtsy, before briskly dangling henceforth. "What a pleasant young lady, isn't she?", he converses with himself, before heading towards the direction she came from. But then, after a spontaneous stroke over his jacket pocket, something has become suddenly conspicuous with its absence. "My watch, it is gone!", he splutters and he dials back, seeing the cat lady slowly disappearing on the horizon. "MADAME, I THINK YOU ACCIDENTALLY..." Again he gets halted, this time by a group of not friendly looking mammals, consisting of three moles and one skunk. "Good day, gentle-mam...", the rooster begins, but then he gets cut off, gruffly collared and tugged to the next street over, a gutter like ditch full of feces. "You cock are the partner in crime of that kitty hocchie, aren't ya? Where is she heading to, ha? Where is she taking our money?", the skunk virulently snarls, meanwhile his comrades pummel the bird, as they plan to tenderize his meat, which might be not so an elusive thought for that matter, in this quarter of the town. The rooster attempts to assemble a mouth-fully righteous excuse for the situation, but he fails to collect the air in his lungs for such a task. In the end he relinquishes every thought of solving this dispute and resigns to his fate. But then something magically distracting transpires, for the moles pause their constant beating and the skunk his constant gibbering. "In need of a helping hand?", a new entrant asks. A badger it is, a big one, with an orderly green outfit, and a suiting hat. "Who are you? Another freaking scrounger of the hooch's league? Just wait, we will deal with ya, after we finished the chicken... " The badger rolls up his sleeves, manifestly he is clearly up to a fight. "I think not, sir! Instead, I will teach YOU some manners!", he shouts heroically before charging into the crowd. What a spectacle! The badger single-handily manages to shellacs all four rackets, without perspire any ounce of badger sweat. At last they surrender and scud in sheer panic, determined to give this alley a wide berth in future.

"Thank god, you came sir. These brutes were absolutely up to thwack me, if it wasn't for your bravely intervention", the rooster stammers, picking up his tailored hat. "I am not even sure why they would attack me in the first place. Do I look like a wealthy aristocrat to you?" The badger remains absolutely silent for a moment. The rooster does have features of a snob, but they are well hidden behind the dirty outfit and the broken quizzing glass. "On closer consideration you do not, I guess.", the badger then agrees. "But on the surface you might appear as a good fodder for the muggers of this town. You may consider changing your demeanour to avoid prospective inroads, sir." The rooster dusts himself down and then answers: "I will. I do not look forward to meet such company soon again." The badger nods and shows indications to elope. But before he leaves the rooster behind, he asks: "I am curious, what kind of business coaxes a Pawlowskaja to delve into this magnificently odd place anyway?" Surprise is written all over the rooster's face, he has not heard the old term for his elegant genus since Bellafide declared war to all yellow-cloaked royals. "I am on the scout for opportunities, my eloquent friend. Prior, quite frankly, I am in search for money, or a profession."

"I understand. Times must be indeed different, when peers are completely broke. One may wonder, what are your qualifications, that you are not diving in propositions?", the badger probes inquisitively. The rooster suffuses himself with the last crumbs of haughtiness, that are buried in his feathery exterior. "Verily, I say unto you, you are granted the rare privilege of meeting the great Baron Rem of the noble family Pawlowskaja, a writer, a poet and apparently the single one poorest member of feral aristocracy.", he promptly introduces himself in the most egocentric kind of behavior. "With an emphasis on "apparently", for I do not have the hunch, that I might not be the poorest after all, considering others who already have been slaughtered by the populace. But I beg your pardon, sir, where are my manners... With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" The badgers touches his hat to the Baron. "Dinjer is the name, sir. The pleasure is all mine.", he says in the calmest voice, Baron Rem has ever heard a carnivore speaking with. "And concerning what I do for a living, I can say that I may have a similar accession to the written word as you do, sir, for I am the publisher of a little newspaper titled The Caterwaul." The Baron is absolutely stunned by what the badger just said. The tiding The Caterwaul is by a long way one of the most renowned papers of Scrapetown, well known for its unbeatable sobriety and truth content. The heads behind the headings and columns tho are utterly anonymous, likely to preserve the identities of the marvelous authors, who are quite openly the authorities bête noire, because of their sturdy denial of prevarication. Nevertheless, they are the only voices of truth in these times of lies, and Baron Rem is their greatest devotee. "What a honor...", the rooster solely gabbles. "Forgive me, I did not know, that I made the acquaintance of such a self-made ingenious gentle-mammal." The badger again touches the tip of his hat, again with the aim to abandon the scenery. "That's precisely one of the benefits of anonymity. So, you must excuse me, I have quite an important appointment, I rather not miss. Farewell, sir, and good luck..."

The badger leaves the alley with no further spoken word, forsaking the Baron and his burning desire to keep this conversation alive. But, much to the regret of the journalist, a Pawlowskaja is not that easily satisfied, especially after finding out such delicate niceties. As a result Dinjer was more than overwhelmed, when the rooster decides to pursue, and furthermore trace his hero along the whole street. Equal to a little cub, that has been imprinted to a foreign species, Baron Rem does not intend to cease from running after the badger whatsoever, even after quite awhile. Although the badger carries it off pretty well, the bird starts promptly to annoy him a little bit. "Mr. Rem.", does Dinjer express his concern loudly. "What do you expect to achieve by that?" The baron hangs his head in shame, a performance straight out of a amateur dramatic. "Pardon me, sir, I do not mean any mischief, but I do have a question in need of a proper response. You see, I am as I formerly declared, quite a scribe in quest of a pleasing labor. Sadly animals like me are not very sought nowadays, so my options are, let's call it, rather limited, as you may noticed. A real tragedy, because all what I require is facility to prove myself, and I guarantee that it will pay off splendidly, for me and of course for the taskmaster as well." Dinjier bends his brow, a mien of pure deliberation. Clearly the rooster knows what he wants, but is he capable to deal with the dangers, that haunts every member of the free press? There is only one way to distinctly find that out. "Alright, Mr. Rem, if it was your tendency to ask me for a position in our organization, you succeeded at least to excite my curiosity. We rather discuss this matter in my office tho, right after I got over and done with some other urgent business. If you would care to follow me!"

They travel to a more upscale neighborhood, inhabited by the bourgeois society, which are mostly mammals like squirrels and mice. The riots do not seem to have reached their big houses yet, so their red brick walled buildings with the stained-glass windows are generally speaking intact and in order. For a second it could be forgotten, that the country is divided by a civil war, but only for a split second, because then the citizens on the street leap to the eye, with their scraggy body figures and their tired glimpses. Everybody seems to pay except for the Civilized of course, who live in their ivory tower, feasting on the amassed riches. On the day before the war struck the land, the Pawlowskaja family decided to join the Civilized faction, a decision that saved their whole house significantly from impoverishment. But was it a appropriate decision? No, not for the Baron. Morals provide him more status than glamour and luxury, for the true aristocrat speaks through one's chivalry, not one's vanity. At least that is his creed, wherefore he was banished from the beautiful royal gardens. In the long run that might be the best fate that could possibly occur to him, for now his soul is clean of compunctions and his life actually better than ever. Rooster and badger come to a whitish house, that makes the impression of being derelict, except for the third floor, which windows are entirely blocked up by brown curtains. Dinjer expertly opens the front door and together they go upstairs, passing empty hallways and more empty rooms. The third floor again is closed off by a locked door, which Dinjer again has to open, this time with a completely different key. The innards, to the Baron's amazement, are not in the least squalid like the rest of the building, but very tidily equipped with furniture, that assume to be mainly for office functions. Although the furnishing is remarkable, the occupancy leaves much to be desired, for only one of the desks is used by an animal, a rat in an orange dress, that seems very busy with typing something. Eventually she raises her eyes to see who entered the headquarters of The Caterwaul. A big mistake, for now she has been granted with a motive to give vent to her frustrations. "What's gotten into you, Dinjer, for crying out loud?", she protests and points a claw at the rooster. "According to the official The Caterwaul arrangement there are no strangers allowed, without exceptions." The badger hangs up hat and cloak on a to that manner created hat-stand, before he replies: "Steady, Gertruda! He is a exceptional case of an exception, he is an applicant." The rat remains unfazed, but slowly relieves tension. "I did not have any knowledge that we have an employment ad running.", she adds to the dialogue, before returning to her daily schedule. "My deepest apologies, Mr..."

"Baron Rem, at your service Madam." the rooster retorts, while placing his warm cloak and hat onto the same hat-stand. Gertruda suddenly glances up once more, zeroing in on the rooster comb and his monocle. "An aristocrat, how jocosely!", she sarcastically says, her eyes swiftly refocusing on her paper sheet. "Be that as it may, your commerce awaits you in your office, Dinjer. And he is extraordinarily harried, so you rather go into the matter straightaway." Dinjer reacts to her argument by gesticulating emptily and hurrying to his office separee, merely labeled "The burrow", truly a fitting name. Alone with his perhaps soon-to-be co-worker, Baron Rem dwells in inner harmony, for his imagination takes an dramatic scale: The very idea of being partly involved in The Caterwaul stirs his blood drastically. Baron Rem Pawlowskaja, journalist, has the nicest of all rings to it. The former landowner and poet at last in his best display, an animal in commission for the greater good. What a development! Surely he has much to learn adopting this course. Promisingly first insights may he possibly snatch from Miss Gertruda, who diligently continues her work without reprieve. But his attempt to sneak a peek backfires miserably, for although he acts approximately deftly, the rat is able to accurately foresee his intents without hesitation. "Can I help you with something, Sir?", she asks politely. "Do you wish for tea, or a fine cracker?" Baron rejects both refreshments, but is willingly zealous to learn more about the rat and her daily routine. "Forgive my brashness, I was just wondering about the current nature of your labor, for it seems to take a lot of effort to write whatever you are writing at the moment." The rat, almost identically to the badger, bends her brow and shows the rooster her oeuvre. It is in fact just a short column, the weather report quite frankly. Disappointment contorts the rooster's beak, his expectations were driven too high. "It is not the most thrilling section of my job, but it has to be done.", Gertruda agrees. "It even may save some lives. One should never underestimate the amount of regular audience that frolics the weather report, Some of these animals might even freeze to death without it!"

"Disregarding their basic instincts for temperature, yes, it truly appears they depend on the weather report.", the rooster can not suppress his sly humor. "We are indeed talking of bulks here, like roughly 10 mammals, who are born without any common senses at all..." The rat is not amused by his waggish ridicule, but plays along. At last, she is a professional, that has battened onto an expedient set of rhetorical skills. "Well how lovely, in that case I have been granted to finally fall in with a fan.", she chatters in a malicious cadence. "For your lack of common sense is virtually gigantic." Baron Rem acknowledged himself beaten by Madam Gertruda. "Your repartee is second to none...", he raggedly admits. "No harm, but a joke intended." She nods, as she passes roguery. "Let this be a lesson to you! A spoonful of reticence is vital for any sort of communication. Most notably, during talking with your superior!" Rem's countenance lightens up a bit. "So, do you feel positive about Dinjer having my recruitment in contemplation?" Gertruda's lack of irony on her ratton face generates a confident atmosphere, when she finally answers: "Dinjer normally has a good nose for extraordinary animals, which fit in our entity. I see no cause yet, that could possibly question his intention. But beware, Mr. Baron, do not upset the wrong animals anymore, for I am quite understanding, but others won't be." The Baron gives his word of honor to neglect her advice. All of a sudden distinct croaking and wing flaps can be heard behind the cardboard-like walls of "The Burrow", putting Baron Rem in quite a flurry. "Roast me several prophet's whiskers! What is the fuss all about?", he asks and Gertruda smiles at him upon him, with her hollow teeth, which are penalized with horrible asymmetry. "The meeting obviously came to an conclusion...", she appeases him. "Now it is your shot!" As concerted a badger opens the door, offering entrance to his realm with a fine waving claw. Baron does as requested, and enters the Burrow, a dubious looking place, filled with all sorts of magazines and books, pigeonholed in three big shelves. The office would be in meticulous neatness, if it wasn't for a stack of feathers and bird scat, concentrating around the window on the left side, curiously enough the only not boarded up one of the entire floor. "I am more than acutely sorry for the shape of my otherwise accurate domicile,", Mr. Dinjer moans. "My other guest was not the cleanest of animal, much to the regret of the wooden boards." He awkwardly commences tiding up the mess, but automatically discontinues due to the little impact for the effort. "Please take a seat!", he says and Baron Rem does so. "Let us proceed to the job interview, shall we?" The badger fetches a pink envelope from the uppermost drawer. "Things are different here, as you may have noticed. That includes the abstinence of a normal procedure..." He unveils the envelope's content, a bunch of notes. "What better way to test someone's competence than to let them attempt the exact task, they applied for?" Baron Rem takes a closer look at the notes. They comprise a plethora of queries, mostly issues, written in a curly font. "Pardon me, sir.", the Rooster horns in. "Do I have this right? It is my duty to undertake an interview in order to get the post?" The badger chimes in. "These are the terms, yes. Are you up to the challenge?" The rooster confidently puffs up, and then retorts in a rasping sound. "Where do I have to sign?"

The distillery lies in a bedraggled borough, that is filled with vermin of all kinds, criminals, in particular, who direct the production of Orn, a type of grog from time immemorial. The alcohol smuggle is quite profitable these days, a harder currency is unknown. It's hardly surprising that the Longcoats are financing their war with the fluid gold, that flows from the oak barrels, and that most of their back up troops are billeted here, for the Distillery Brothers, form the majority of their militia and are the principal owners of the factory. Barom Rem was given an address, where he should meet up with a speaker of the blue faction, to respond to the solicitude filled questions of the modest animal. Nothing special, standard journalism in times like these, but... something to it keeps Baron's blood pumping like oil through the veins of a endlessly ongoing tank engine. Perhaps it is his dearth of empirical knowledge that gives him goosebumps, as he enters the main gate of the distillery, guarded by four armed to the teeth animals. Or is it the revulsion for any kind of involvement in the national conflict that grinds his gears, while two of the bloodthirsty animals bring him to the secretarial establishments? The rooster could not tell, as it is impossible to think of any logic clarification of his problem. He calms himself by the inner agreement that he this is his job now, his daily life, that needs to be executed, and eerily he feels comfort as they reach their final destination, a large room, an office, with a desk, a chimney fire and everything, that a modern working space should have. There he meets his interviewee. It is not evident from his anatomy, which species he belongs to, but with his long tail, the long whiskers above the mustache and the big round ears, it can be adopted that he is indeed a rodent, like a mouse or a rat. Beside his physiognomy his impressive stature and his all in all breath-taking presence are clearly the most interesting aspect of his shell. Baron Rem does know the animal standing at the open fire, although he has never met him before, and his blood changes over to boil with excitement, for this animal is the reason for all of this. It's the Longcoat personified, Bellafide. And he has not perceived the rooster yet. "Commander;", one of the guards approaches his leader. "The journalist..." Bellafide exits his state of musing and looks directly into the bird's eyes, as he has been awaken from a deep slumber, confused but heads-up. "Allow me to inform you, I...", Baron Rem stutters, but breaks off speaking at once, for the head of the revolution turns as red as a beet. "Is that a broad joke, private?", he yells over the rooster's head to his soldier. "I asked for an interview with the papers, not for an interrogation with a prisoner of the war. Bowdlerise this perfidious rabble from my office right now!" The soldiers do as their commander wishes, and are up to keep the panicky rooster in custody, but then are disrupted by a large black animal, that arrives on the scene. "What is happening in here, sir? The noise nuisance is outrageous. Any problematic issues?" It is a raven, as far as the rooster can tell, uncomfortably huge, and also seemingly infected with a virus, making him shed his feathers uncontrollably. He sees the other bird, the fear in his eyes. "Goodness gracious, that must be the journalist, I have ordered! I remember seeing him with Dinjer this very afternoon. Did the interview not go to the satisfaction of everybody, Bellafide?" The great leader. pleasantly startled, takes another look at the rooster in the cold light of his fire and comes to the resolve to release him. "I am really sorry, sir, I have not anticipated an animal of your lineage to work for an impartial organ. Normally I do not attribute myself with such bias." The rooster in the meantime can not stop rubbing his neck, where the soldier viciously grappled him. "No mentioning..", he says in a hoarse tone. "With your permission, I would prefer to proceed to our little chat for my column now, sir!" Bellafide is in favor of getting over this affair and sends his loyals out of the room with a slight hoisting of his right paw. The interview can begin.

"How about a drink?"

"I do not drink, sir. But thank you for the offering."

"No fancier of spirit, huh? You are a rare specimen of your kind, are you not? Normally the Pawlowskajas are known for their monstrous debaucheries..."

"I have abandoned the way of my family's life since I have left the gardens behind, sir."

"A deed you bitterly repent, I guess? Considering all the austerities, that result from your action."

"Not at all, sir. To be honest, I do not feel any sorrow concerning my fate here in the "real world". It is like stepping out of an illusion, whether it is pleasant or not, at least it is the real deal. But I would like to start with my questions as stipulated in your order, if you do not mind. As much as my past has a lot to tell, yours is the one, people desire to hear about. "

"You massage my ego, Mr. ..?"

"Rem, sir."

"You massage my ego, Mr. Rem. I am not more than an animal with a home-made fortune, that happens to be the creature in charge of thousands. It could happen to all of us, but as god's willing I am the chosen one to purge these lands from the cleric dictatorship."

"No doubt, but still the populace wonders, where does a mammal as influential like you, come from? You are, as mentioned before, no aristocrat, born with money, are you not?"

"No, Mr. Rem. I was born in a district not different than this one. A hell hole really, where hopes and dreams are drowned in the crypt. I was a gutter mouse, young, marcid, chanceless. My parents dead, killed by a plague-like disease, that went about the drains in the same way the lice swap their hosts, one after another. But I was spared, you want to know why? The assertions to the contrary notwithstanding that there is no will in my folk left, I made the decision not to die under these unworthy circumstances. The expedient came with a tournament. "

"Ah, the infamous boxing competition that started your career, I presume..."

"Not at all, it was long before my deeds in the legal boxing rings. You see, the kennels have their own private fights, salaried by the black market, and they are brutal. At this point of poverty people become, how should I explain it properly, they become violent, bloodthirsty, savage. The highest rule of nature is survival, isn't it? And the fighters of the pit reached the edge, where no other rule is relevant for them. They hurt to live one day more."

"Terrible, what a sad existence. How did you move on from these awful tournaments?"

"By outperform the competition. I managed to deal with every champion the crowd threw at me. There was no one left to beat me, so I naturally got promoted to the next level and engaged in legal affairs, you mentioned them before, normal boxing. My detractors were no match for me, for I had something, they had never learned in their "schools": Patience, and the thuggish fighting style of the street."

"And with the success came the fortune, I pressume. And reputation."

"Funny, isn't it? My fate was certain, to die beside my cold begetter my only option. But I did what no one could, I took the reins in my own hands. When my boxing career was over, I went into business for myself, bankrolled projects that turned out to be very profitable. I was a made mammal. "

"So, what happened next? You settled down to family life, didn't you?"

"Sort of. I did indeed find my love, a young, noble, beautiful mouse, blessed by birth with all the riches a mammal like me could long for. And we had a son... I loved him very much, for he was a lot like me. A stubborn young fellow, but with ambitions and talent. He had plans, you know? To be a pilot, to see the world..."

In this moment the fluid conversation between the Baron and Bellafide slows down to a minimun of the previous velocity. The commander of the Longcoats draws a bead on the open fire, as he could see the ghosts of the past cheerfully dancing there. Baron Rem happens to notice that something about Bellafide seems to be not alright. A scar, that has never had the opportunity to fully heal. The rooster, who deigns Bellafide the breather, takes a look around. One corner differs from the others,there is a crypt and toys lie there, dusty, inanimate. A wooden plane, made for a cub. Objects tanked with memories. Suddenly Bellafide harrumphes vigorously, his eyes red from the heat and the thoughts.

"Mr. Rem."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, it's nothing... What is your next question?"

Baron Rem looks down on his pinkish notes, they all have something to do about the war. But in this second another question assumes shape in his skull. A question, that he cares for and is curious about, yet it is an odd one, that no animal in his position would typically consider. Therefore it is very important to pose it.

"Mr. Bellafide, sir, are you alright?"

"Pardon me?"

"Not to offend you or anything, but you make the impression to me that you are in deep sorrow and doubts. Something a lesser animal would construe as signs of weakness, but I would never do, for I am quite aware of the conflict, that one could have within oneself."

"Do you... Well I don't know, I normally intend to keep my doubts private as everyone does. "

"Of course you do. That reminds me: When I left my house up in the gardens, I was devastated. Not because of the loss of the luxury, or the furniture, but because of the loss of any kind of relationship and conncetion. I had no one to talk with, no one to share with. And that made my heart atrophy a bit, I guess."

"What about a priest? The cleric have to provide sympathetic ears, do they not?"

"Mr, Bellafide, you of all people should really know that the church has averted from the common animals. They are with the Civilized now, in their golden temples, that I have despised."

"Right. Then the options are pretty limited nowadays, aren't they?"

"Yes they are. That's why I asked you about your welfare. The crowd often forgets that their leaders are only animals too, with faults and remorse. And with your family gone... Who else is there?"

Bellafide takes a deep breath and watches the flames intensly.

"Tell me, Mr. Rem, why of all things should I confess the press my inner troubles?"

Mr. Rem puts down the notes, the pen and his memorandum book. He has meticulously jotted down every phrase, that has been spoken previously. Now he has no intention to make anything public that Bellafide has to offer next. Chivalry, Baron's Rem biggest virtue, forbids him to do so.

"Because in this very fading instant I am not the press anymore, but just an animal that won't air anything that will be said in this very room. For now, I am your priest, cross my heart!"

Bellafide's visage is tainted by wariness. Should he shrive his sins in front of a complete stranger? Is the bird trustworthy enough to keep secrets? But then he realizes that there is a way find out. He goes to his desk, opens the very bottom drawer and reveals a bottle, which is filled with a gloomy green substance.

"I want you to take a sip of these home-brewed elixer of mine. Afterwards I am more than volitional to talk about my private matters."

Baron Rem gazes with digust and fear in his eyes at the slimy volume behind the glass.

"Do I really have to drink some of this? Is my oath not virtous enough?"

"Truth be told, it is not. I insist you taste my product. It is a brandnew mixture, my boys have finished yesterday. Orn is, to put it frankly, water under the bridge. This has the makings of being the creme de la creme of liqours, catering for all tastes. And what better subject for the first acid test than an animal which abhors booze. If you can like it, then everyone will like it."

"That's seems plausible. Very well, I have one glass"

"One sip is more than adequate for an animal your physique."

Baron Rem takes as concerted a pull on the bottle. The greenish fluidness does have a bitter aftertaste, and smells of gasoline, but is not that bad. Baron Rem has never been big for alcohol, but this one seems unnaturally harmless.

"Very good. Dry, but not bad. A prospering manufacture from your labs, it will go like hot cakes."

Bellafide, slightly amused, corks the bottle and puts it back to his drawer.

"I do not think so, for this little beverage is far too expensive and, quite frankly, too poisionous for the common market."

In an instant the rooster gasps and chokes, as he fingers his neck in the attempt to get rid of the toxin, but it is too late, for the venom has already slid down his throat. He is doomed to die. Or is he? For he does not feel any symptoms yet.

"When will it happen?"

"Apparently, it won't at all."

Confused, but relieved the rooster moans desperately, meanwhile Bellafide can not refrain from laughing.

"You must condone my dirty trick, Mr. Rem. I had to test you. You see, this bottle was a gift from my dear old friend Mr. Psotniks, alias "The Salamander". He has been traveling around recently, and came to this isolated village of snakes, that treats foreigners with caution and afflicts them by letting them drink snake poison, mixed with the delicate ingredients of drink. However, the lunatic thing about the lethal cocktail is that it is only effective if its victim, in our little charade you, is nervous enough to activate the chemistry behind it. It needs adrenaline to act as poison, do you understand?"

"So if I had been more nervous, for example, by lying..."

"You would have died within seconds, yes."

"That is beyond madness, sir. You actually attempted homicide..."

"You mean YOU attempted suicide, for it is sheer suicide to lie to Bellafide, Mr. Rem. One way or another I would have killed you anyway for lying into my face. The venom just saves me the pains of finding and annihilate you. In the tongue of managers that is simply called maximization of efficiency."

The rumors are true: Great care must be taken while dealing with Longcoats. Bellafide truly embodies the paragon of a modern predator: Sly, iniquitous and utterly unscrupulous. This mammal really has shed every moral during his harsh campaign. "Caw canny, Baron Rem!", the rooster tells himself. "Try to outsmart him if necessary..."

"I am shell-shocked about how little you seem to trust in me, but I do have in mind that there are indeed odd circumstances that might have provoke you to think so little of my kind, for the Civilized would confront a Longcoat with the same distastefulness. I attempt to let this whole incident pass by and would be happy to hear your story now, for I have clearly and literally have more than own this pleasure."

Bellafide's ecstatic disposition immediately transforms into a blank stare.

"Yes, it appears I own you so much. Well, you see, the matter of what darkens my thoughts is quite outlandish. I shall explain you that I was at a mill recently. The big ol' mill, to be more specific, do you know this very farm?"

Baron Rem nods furiously, he used to visit the place back in the days. A nice pile of soil, a beautiful location to indulge the fresh air of the royal plains.

"The mill is in its current state of no use in a economic sense, but it's position does serve a lot on the strategic level. It might even effect the denouement of this Civil War. So it was no wonder, that friend as well as foe proceeded to the hills, ready to kill everyone that dared to interfere. We expected to find desolate mounds, lonely fields and houses. Unfortunately for us we all underestimated the resilience of the previous residents. For the whole hill was sill occupied, by pigs..."

Bellafide again beholds the fire, his face all blank, as if the traumatic experience at the mill blurs his memories.

"What do you know of pigs, Mr. Rem?"

Baron Rem cogitated about his cognizance of pigs, and replies in a fractional manner:

"They have served the other animals as livestock since the old days of the monarchy. A long time ago it has been declared that they have to work as peasants, feasting on the seed of Earth and getting fat for the slaughterhouse. Since always, really, they are fine with this fate tho, for their lives are short, but fulfilled, due to the luxury treatment they get from their caretakers. I beg your pardon, sir, but what does all of this have to do with the ol' Mill?"

"It means everything. A bright creature as you must be conscious about the significance of the times we are currently in, are you not? We are living in an age of modification, where old structures are razed by new, formerly oppressed ideas. The Civilized and their authority is questioned, the role of the common folks is questioned, everything seems to be questioned these days. Why not the fate of the swines?"

"You mean, sir, the pigs do have developed concerns about their situation? Like a conscience?"

"Yes, Mr. Rem, that is exactly what happened. It beggars belief to even think that they could snap out of their century-long static view of the world and their importance for us. But it finally transpired, that even pigs do reflect the Civil War, and its possible outcome. "

"And did they undertake some sort of action? To establish their new born common sense, it surely does need some sort of act..."

"They did, what any animal in their position would have done: Perform their finest struggle for survival. But what finesse! They actually outdid themselves, by outwitting and expelling all our local troops, ironically slaughtering only a few of them. Over night the mill became the fortress of the pigs' rebellion, and a monument of their ambitions. So, of course, I had to do something, didn't I? I could not allow the pigs to have this surprising victory, or else their relatives would start questioning their fate too, and the whole incidents would lead to a cascade of problems within our food sectors. I negotiated with our enemies and arranged the permission to straight up march in and crush the rebellion as brutally as the situation acquired me to be. I did, and as a result, executed the rebellion's leader and squelched the rest like bugs. Done and dusted, right?"

"Picking out the slight tribulations of your voice, I heavily doubt that this could be the end of the tale."

"These pigs were slippery, and observing the unavoidable destiny of their rebellion, they made preparations. A tunnel. They built a tunnel under our feet, in which a good third of them was able to escape. A third, do you understand me? Revolutionists on their way to all the corners of the country!"

Bellafide clenches his teeth, depicting rage in his purest form.

"Now you are a confident of the nightmare, that keeps me worried all day and night long, Mr. Rem. You devoured the same bitter pill as I did. Satisfied with its taste?"

Baron Rem desperately sweeps his mind for a proper answer. Partially he rates the story as a myth, that Bellafide has fabricated to fool the press for his benefit. But two controversies militate against a fake narrative: First of all he does not seem to really benefit from a tale of pig revolution, quite the contrary, he suffers from it more than anyone else. The greatest repertoire of livestock usually does have the upper hand in this conflict, and when it comes to sheer numbers, Longcoats and Civilized share a similar account of pigs. Secondly, Bellafide really does seem to be shaken by this story, and as far as Baron Rem could tell, he is not the type of animal that ply the swell art of drama. Truth has been told today, that is for certain. But what would that mean for the country? And what does a little rooster do in such a debacle?

"I feel uncomfortable. To be honest, another quencher of your fine toxic liquid would taste a lot better. But I am glad, that you came to the arbitration of entrusting your secret to me. I am humbled, but I would like to bring the conversation round to the interview, I was instructed to do. You do feel some sort of relief, don't you?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Rem, it is remarkable: As soon as the words exited my mind, I felt the serenity. Thank you very much for that service, I shall give you the best interview that a journalist could wish for. But do me a favor, and don't include anything about the mill's incident in your papers. As I declared before, I have ways for ordering you to be quiet, for every measurement of time that is required. I demand you to maintain absolute silence regarding the mill, understood? For your own sake!"

"Of course, sir!", Baron Rem promises and skims through the empty pages of his notebook. "A gentle mammal always keeps his word..."

Later Dinjer skims through the very same pages, as Baron Rem did approximately two hours ago, the only difference: All of them are filled with information. And although they were beautifully written, the badger was not very thrilled about the words' meanings. "Boring. Boring. Boring...", he kvetches, then he bandies looks with Baron Rem, who sits in his chair like he is rooted to the spot. "The Svereksi offense? Bellafide seemed to be very open with you about that matter, well done! We have tried to tidy up the proceedings of that politico-military mess for months." He returns the notepad with a mixture of contentment and curiosity. "One may ask, how you managed to get this delicacy of military secret, but I know that the journalists of my newspaper are animals of a certain stature, with their own set of skills." Baron Rem's body trembles, because of the sheer excitement that streams through his cells. "Does that mean, I am...", he begins and Dinjer just nods in approval. "Welcome on board, Mr. Rem. Welcome on board indeed!" Baron Rem could not comprehend his luck, for he finally has a profession to feed him during these bad times and the opportunity to show the people, what he is capable of. He will be a knight for justice, and for the truth... The truth... The truth is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe a better title of nobility would be knight for peace, because sometimes the truth can be too harsh to bear.

"Would you be so kind, Mr. Rem, as tobring these four pages to Getruda? She is engaged with the finalization of the next edition of the , she is dying for the inclusion of these literal treasures in her paper. Thank you!", Dinjer jests lovely and Baron Rem does as he was commanded. But before the rooster could exit the "burrow", the badger appears to have another query for the colorful bird. "Mr. Rem, did Bellafide coincidentally mention any pigs, or a revolt? Rumor has it that there was an incident including that animal not far from here, that the elite intends to withhold. I have neglected to inform you about this manner before your thriving interview, unfortunately..." Mr. Rem wags plainly with his head, for he does remember that he has given his word to Bellafide. "Worse things happen at sea!", Dinjer agrees, smiling, so that his canine teeth glint dangerously in the light of the lamps. "But we should definitely stick at it, for sure. I can sense that there is more about that rumor then just a fairy tale. And gut instincts are fairly important in our metier, mark my words, Mr. Rem." Again, Mr. Rem just barely moves his again, this time with a little bow, before he finally escapes the office and the embarrassing scenario in there. Should he tell Dinjer about Bellafide's confession? But what would be the result of such an action? Death? Or worse?

Wait, what is this? All of a sudden he has been jolted out of his daydream by the loud whimpering that appears to occur right in front of the of the burrow. Gertruda is ostensibly occupied with an intruder, who clearly has no intention to leave the headquarters in the next few hours. "And you call yourselves the voice of reason these days? That is hardly believable regarding how little attention my case gets from you. If I have known that you follow as similarly corrupt principles as the police, I would have stayed there." Gertruda, seemingly enraged, listens to her inner voice of restraint and answers calmly: "We are a newspaper organization, madam, not a missing animal finder organization. We could file a missing animal's report, but searching for aforementioned individual is marginally possible." The other animal, who appears to be a cat, loudly sighs and then replies: "He is not missing, he's got kidnapped. Can't you understand? He is my son! Please help me..." In her perplexity Gertruda looks about for something or someone who could assist her with its presence, and her eyes quickly espy a certain rooster, that recently came out of the "burrow." "Mr. Rem, maybe you could talk some sense into this young lady? I tried my best, but she behaves strangely mulish." Now the cat lady turns to the rooster as well, and both recognize each other immediately, for they have encountered each other this day, on a street not far from here. "You", Baron Rem whispers quietly to the cat, that happens to be the thief of his watch. "You", the cat grumbles at the sight of the rooster, that happens to be victim of her theft. And Gertruda remains silent, waiting with bated breath what all of this could possible portend.


End file.
